Coughlin’s collection of stories and poems brings readers into an expansive mosaic, drawing together the lives and memories of children, the elderly, mourners, and spiritual seekers.

The tales here gather a variety of experiences in an array of settings, from 1940s Brazil to rural cemeteries, wooded clearings, small towns, and retreats into seaside memories. “Kindertotenlied” stands out for its portrayal of reflections on first friendships and childhood grief. The story is told through the perspective of Maria Estela, a Brazilian girl who befriends a mysterious and free-spirited German exchange student named Yvonne as World War II rages on the other side of the world, and it traces their coming-of-age bond; it’s a friendship that, even with the knowledge it will end, carries a sadness so poignant that it feels starkly present, even in an adult’s memory. The flash-fiction piece “Interlude,” in which an older woman watches a child admire her artwork made from butterfly wings at precisely 11:30 every day, is particularly memorable for its brevity, compared to the other tales, yet it proves how much literary weight and nostalgic depth an author can wield in a short passage. On a structural level, the book moves between traditional prose and alternate forms, playing with time or even shifting to a screenplay format with ease, as in “Macumbeiro,” a one-scene act involving a theological debate, staged as a forest conversation between Baptist seminary student Martin and Manuel, an aging practitioner of Candomblé, who have known each other since Martin was young.

On a story-by-story level, it’s a delight to read such fine writing, but together as a collection, these works offer a thoughtful understanding of how memory and time are shaped by culture. In “Macumbeiro,” for instance, the clash of Abrahamic moralism and Afro-Brazilian spirituality offers engaging insight into questions of desire, the stigmatization of religious identity, and colonialism. There’s a compelling moral rockiness in the scene of two men confronting their differences, but their breakthroughs, such as “if I’m following my destiny, then how can it be wrong?,” seem to bridge the gap and offer a sort of mutual absolution. Recurring motifs of butterflies, movement, and bygone eras throughout the stories contribute to a sense that memory is a kind of haunting in itself. The prose also has an aching quality at times, offering a fragile and vulnerable way of comprehending the past. Its exploration of quiet moments and rich inner worlds effectively address the concept (and beauty) of fleeting connections with others and with oneself. The stories aren’t narratively connected, but a melancholic, blue tone resonates throughout them all. Memory can be a difficult theme to handle, especially in a collection of so many stories, but the author pulls them all together with striking grace. Even in the stories in which the message in less tangible and clear, they leave an unmistakable mark—much like a memory—that’s likely to stay with the reader after they turn the last page.

An unforgettable and bittersweet set of quiet but affecting tales.